


The Best Laid Plans

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Body Piercing, Consensual Spanking of an Adult, Impact Play, Leather, Leather Kink, M/M, Neal is an FBI Agent, Nipple Play, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7067101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal Caffrey, newly minted FBI agent, has been assigned to the New York field office and the White Collar division, but before he starts work, he needs a night for himself.  A night to break out the leather and go hunting for the man he'd met six months earlier, the man who'd given him the best sex of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cookielaura](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cookielaura).



> Written for Cookielaura for Round Four of the White Collar Pairings fic exchange. My recipient wanted Peter/Neal and likes BDSM. I hope this fits her bill! The scenes in the early part of this story were inspired by the short film, _Interior: Leather Bar_ , which reimagines the filming of the mythical "lost" X-rated scenes from the 1980 Al Pacino film, _Cruising_.

Despite the prestige in the assignment, Neal wasn’t all that pleased to be posted to the field office in New York. He’d wanted to be back in D.C., where he could keep focused on his mission – to climb the ladder at the FBI. New York City, the capital of the world, the Big Apple, was filled with all sorts of distractions.

And it didn’t help that without a concrete goal in sight, like being the youngest Section Chief in the Bureau's history; he had the attention span of a six year old hopped up on Twinkies and Pixie Stix. 

Oh, he’d been a good boy for the last five months, sticking to the program, being the perfect trainee. And even for the years before that, (mostly) toeing the line at Harvard – four years of undergrad and three years of law school, working hard to maintain a perfect GPA, and then two more long years of private practice in the whitest of white shoe firms in D.C., selling his soul and making a fortune.

His colleagues thought he was an idiot, to walk away from a partner-track career with a six-figure salary, but the truth was, this career was never his end game. He wanted the FBI, he wanted what had been denied to his father. He wanted to rub those cheap suits' noses in the stellar career he was going to have. James Bennett might have remained a detective with the Metro D.C. police, a man turned sour by his own inadequacies, but his son was going to be a shining star.

Provided he wasn't distracted. 

But in truth, he was too easily distracted. By men. By good looking, hard-bodied men. Men with a little seasoning. Men who knew what they wanted and weren’t hesitant about taking what was offered.

A few weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday, Neal had “lost” his virginity to a leather daddy in the men's room of a club on Boyleston Street. He’d used a fake ID and licked his lips at the bouncer at Ramjacks. The encounter was … okay. 

It wasn’t that it was an anonymous fuck, or that the guy – six-five in his boots – all but overpowered him, or that he wouldn’t kiss. The thing only turned sour when he told Neal to call him “Daddy”. _That_ was the last thing he’d wanted to do.

Neal had pulled up his pants, fought his way out of the guy’s sticky embrace, and limped back to his dorm room in Cambridge, both satisfied and annoyed. But he’d kept going back to that club; not often – just a few times a month because a man had his needs. He’d set ground rules for the men he went with and they were, for the most, observed. No bruising, no biting, no bare backing, and for god’s sake, no “baby, call me Daddy”. And as he got older, no kissing either because that implied an intimacy he wasn't sure he was capable of.

His own fist and his imagination (and a massive collection of porn) sufficed for the rest of the time. In his junior year, Neal ditched life in the dorms and rented a studio apartment on the other side of the Charles River. The building was owned by a quirky paranoiac who didn’t want references, but instead insisted on a cheek swab and a DNA test. Neal humored the man – Mozzie – because the rent was affordable and the apartment was rather spectacular.

“Why do you need a cheek swab?”

“To make sure you’re human. I’ve got a policy about not renting the top floor to space aliens.”

Neal blinked and wondered if that meant that Moz was willing to rent the basement unit to space aliens, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask.

He settled in, and for the next few years, did his best to concentrate on his classwork and not think (too much) about his man-hungry dick. He remained focused on his long term goal, on what was really important – becoming an FBI agent – provided that he didn’t die of blue balls first.

Which was why, for the first time in five months – he was now a newly minted FBI agent about to start his probationary assignment – Neal was getting ready to _go out_ on a Friday night. And going out meant dressing properly. Before he put on the ultra-supple, ultra-skintight kidskin leather trousers, the knee-high lace-up biker boots, the vest and cuffs and collar – all black leather and very well worn (he was no poser) – Neal had to get his body jewelry back in.

The barbell that decorated his navel slipped in easily enough, but he had trouble getting the nipple rings back in, since the holes had almost closed up. By the time he’d finished, his nipples were sore and distended and he was sweating and half-hard from the pain. As he buttoned up the leather vest, Neal hissed as the satin lining chafed his irritated nubs. It felt so damn good.

It wasn’t as if he’d been celibate for the last five months. There had been plenty of opportunities for hooking up at the Academy, and after the first month, the trainees had liberty on the weekends. While D.C. wasn’t the homophobic city that most people thought it was, it wasn’t as wild and as raunchy as his dick liked. Getting laid wasn’t the problem, getting properly fucked was.

It was really sort of killing him. If he didn’t get soundly fucked soon, his concentration was going to be shot. And yet, once he did what he needed, it was equally likely he’d be unable to focus on anything but his sore ass and his satisfied prick. But at least that would only last for a few days, and besides – as a probie on his first assignment – it would be expected that he’d be clumsy and hesitant.

So, getting fucked was the best option. 

Having learned the hard way to leave his wallet home, Neal took out his driver’s license, some cash and his Amex, and wrapped a rubber band around the bundle before sliding it into a pocket inside his right boot. A few condoms and lube packets in one pocket in his vest, his phone and another twenty went into another, and his keys were on a ring attached to his belt. Of course, his gun and shiny new badge stayed behind.

Cockrun's, on Fourteenth Street in Chelsea, was an institution. Neal had been there a few dozen times during his Harvard years, coming down to New York for the weekend when he couldn’t take the fakers and wannabes who’d invaded Ramjacks anymore. And he came up from D.C. regularly after passing the Bar and going to work. 

In fact, the last time he’d gotten well and truly fucked – a few weeks before heading down to Quantico – was in Cockrun's’ john, holding onto the toilet while a glorious god in a tight black t-shirt and leather pants reamed his ass and tortured his tits. The man was his dream – tall and well-muscled, but not pumped – wearing his years as easily as his well-worn leathers. The bastard didn’t even remove his aviators as he fucked him.

Over six months later, the memory of that hookup still had the power to make him hard and sweaty. Neal couldn’t help but hope that the guy was there tonight. Unlikely, he knew, but he (and his dick) couldn’t help but dream. That might have been the best fuck of his life.

Neal slipped the bouncer a twenty and the guy let him in. The club was a flight down from the street and it felt like he was coming home. The music was throbbing, the odor – sweaty men, leather and polish and semen and lube and beer – was intoxicating. Here, he wasn’t Neal Caffrey, newly minted FBI agent, but Nicky – who loved cruising for cock and older guys who knew how to give him what he wanted.

Neal paused for a moment, scanning the crowd, looking for Mr. Wonderful, but the strobes made it difficult to distinguish between one black leather clad man and another. Neal liked to ease his way into the crowd, to let his eyes adjust, so he headed for the bar. Of course, he was propositioned a dozen times in the dozen steps it took to get there, but none of the men asking were pushing his buttons. This one had too many tats, that one was someone he knew would try to push E on him. Two others were just sort of _meh_ – probably stuffing their baskets with socks. The rest were too young for his tastes.

Neal was cruising. He wanted to get fucked, but not just by any guy. He wanted Mr. Wonderful. Or a reasonable facsimile.

“What can I get you?” The bartender was all business.

“Heineken, bottle – unopened.”

The bartender smirked at him as he pushed a cold bottle across the bar – cap intact. Less chance of getting roofied that way. Neal watched the men on the dance floor grunting and grinding and sweating and he couldn’t shake the disappointment. No sign of Mr. Wonderful.

There was a brief break in the music, the lighting changed, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Someone was watching him.

Neal found his reflection in the mirror behind the bar and caught his breath. He slowly turned around and tried to play it cool. Which was hard, since his _idée fixe_ was standing there, a smirk on his lips, well-worn leathers riding low on his hips, and his aviators firmly in place, despite the darkness in the club.

“It’s been a while, sweet cheeks.”

Neal flushed and shivered and didn’t say anything.

“Been wondering where you’ve been. A guy like you gets around – but no one’s seen you for months.”

He took a sip of beer, just to ease the desert dryness in his throat. Mr. Wonderful had been looking for _him_. Wow. He swallowed and found his voice. “I’ve been out of town.”

“I didn’t think you lived in New York. Always had the sense you were from someplace else – that you were a tourist.”

Neal ignored the insult, and focused on what was important. “Always?”

“Yeah – seen you here quite a few times. _Always_ wanted to get to know you a bit better.” The man’s smirk seemed all the more evil, all the more delicious in the pulsing strobe lights. 

Neal’s own leathers were getting way too tight. And they got even tighter when he realized that this guy had been watching him for a while. He took another sip of beer and when the man cocked his hip and leaned against the bar, Neal’s brain completely disconnected and he lost all sense of discretion. “I'm not a tourist. I just moved to New York.”

The smile broadened, but was no less wicked. “Good, then maybe I will get a chance to get to know you a bit better.”

_I already know what your cock feels like up my ass, what your fingers taste like in my mouth, what they feel like pinching my tits. What more do I need to know?_

“I’m Peter, by the way.” The god finally introduced himself.

“Nicky.” At least he remembered not to use his real name.

“You don’t look like a ‘Nicky’ – ‘Nicholas’ maybe. Or Nick. But not ‘Nicky’.”

Neal glared at “Peter”. He wanted to get fucked, not play word games. “Want to dance?”

Peter just held out his hand. Neal looked at it for a second before taking it and letting Peter walk him to the dance floor. It was an oddly formal and courtly gesture. Until he yanked Neal into his arms as the music ratcheted up. They joined the men around them in a not-so-subtle mating dance. But unlike those men, they danced together, hip-to-hip, belly and chest pressed together, arms resting on each other’s shoulders. Neal could feel the heavy weight of Peter’s cock against his. It was a threat, a promise, and he wanted to abandon all common sense and drop to his knees and service it right here, on the dance floor, in front of a hundred other men.

Peter shifted their bodies so that he was spooning against him, his front all but plastered to Neal’s back. In an instant, Neal was transported back to his first encounter with Peter – with Mr. Wonderful – when he fucked him in the john, heaving over him, ramming into him like a missile, making him come harder than he ever had before. Making him want to cling and whimper and _serve_.

His cock, already hungry, rose like a beast. Peter ran his hands down Neal’s sides, across his bare skin where the vest parted, then cupped his dick, squeezing in syncopation to the beat of the house music. Neal almost came. He did whimper when Peter removed his hand, but that hand didn’t go far. Just back to his belly button, toying with the barbell, then a little higher, teasing along the well-defined muscles.

“You’ve gotten into better shape, Nicky. I like it, but what have you been doing to yourself?” Peter murmured into his ear. The words barely registered but the sounds zinged in his brain, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

The music, the lights, Peter’s body grinding against him, the feeling of freedom after five months of a regimented existence, tapped into his id, and his tongue was reckless. “I’ve been dreaming about you.”

“You say the sweetest things, Nicky.” Peter laughed and his wicked fingers found the ring on his right nipple, tugging sharply. Neal hissed at the perfect pleasure and ground his ass back into Peter’s groin, letting Peter hump him, maul him. If Peter pulled down his pants and pushed him to his knees to fuck him on the dance floor, Neal wouldn’t have stopped him.

But Peter didn’t. He just wrapped an arm around his midriff and rolled his hips into Neal’s ass, his other hand tormenting his tit. It was perfect. Until two over-muscled freaks started to move into their space. It seemed like they thought Neal was a party favor to be shared.

They crowded in, intending to tag-team him into submission. Despite five months of training in hand-to-hand combat, Neal started to panic – he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to take these guys down. Both men were bruisers, well over a foot taller than he was, and they each outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds.

But Peter tightened his hold, glared at the men and said, “Mine.”

They just melted back into the crowd.

Peter bit his ear and whispered, “You’re way too tempting, Nicky. I think I want to take you home and get you naked and spend the next few hours doing all sorts of dirty things to you.”

Neal was torn – he wanted a good fucking. That was why he was at Cockrun's. He wanted Peter – Mr. Wonderful – and he wanted him more than he’d ever wanted any other man. But he didn’t want either trouble or a relationship. Going home with Peter could lead to both. 

He didn't say anything and Peter gave him a rueful frown. "No?"

Neal suggested an alternative, “What about a hotel?”

Peter smiled, and it was almost as arousing as his hands and his cock. “Sure." 

He herded Neal out of the club, and the cool night air, scented with the metallic tang of exhaust fumes, was its own intoxicant. Chelsea was filled with clubs and bars catering to all sorts of tastes, and there were plenty of boutique hotels where the receptionist wouldn’t blink at either of them.

Peter kept a strong arm around Neal’s waist and steered him into The Standard. Neal blinked. This trendy hotel overlooking the Hudson wasn’t what he was expecting.

“Don’t worry, Sweet Nicky, I can afford it.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was shocked at his own behavior.

He'd been cruising the leather scene for nearly twenty years, almost as long as he’d been an FBI agent, but he’d rarely felt the need for anything more than an anonymous fuck in the john. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in relationships or even second dates (and at this stage of his life, he was more than content with his dog and his large-screen television), but the men who frequented places like Cockrun's and the steadily dwindling leather scene were really only good for one night stands.

Until he had that encounter with "Nicky" – not that he'd bothered to learn the man's name at that time. He'd seen the guy in the club a few times and had considered making a play. He finally did make a move and enjoyed himself tremendously, but until he'd watched the man pull up his pants and give him a saucy wink before leaving the stall, he hadn't thought that the encounter was anything more than that. A good, hard and dirty fuck in the toilet of a leather bar, just one of the hundreds he'd had over the last two decades.

There was something about the guy's smile. Something that made him want more than this one-time casual encounter.

And over the next six months, every time he came to Cockrun's, Peter looked for him, but the search was in vain. And it seemed he'd become completely disinterested in anything else on offer, which was a problem. His dick wasn't accustomed to going without for so long, but his brain seemed to find every other man here just _lacking_.

It was getting to the point that he was almost ready to retire the leathers. There were too many fakers and posers now, wannabes who thought that simply dressing like something out of a Tom of Finland illustration would buy them entrée into the scene. And the more Peter thought about it, the more he realized he was getting tired of the scene. Too many nights he felt like the last of a dying breed, a Galapagos tortoise. Truthfully, had it not been for "Nicky", he probably wouldn't have come back to Cockrun's as often as he had. 

But tonight was his lucky night and he'd spotted his quarry almost as soon as the boy had come through the door. He didn't pounce, though. Peter watched the man, watched him cruise the perimeter as if he was looking for something. For someone. He waited patiently while the man headed towards the bar. It wasn't until he'd asked for a beer that Peter made his move.

Peter was a little shocked when he got a good look at his quarry's face. The man was better looking than his memory – not quite so smooth and angelic. There was a sharpness that he hadn't remembered, a strength to his jawline that hadn't been there before, a maturity that had been missing. 

But those lips were the same, curving into a wicked smile that promised far too much.

They danced, or rather, they all-but-fucked on the dance floor and it was something of a revelation.

All the sweet softness that he'd remembered from his encounter with Nicky was gone. The slim and lightly toned body had gotten rock hard, and not from hours at a gym. What he could feel under his hands, what he could see in the flashing lights, was strength honed by purpose, and that intrigued Peter to no end.

Nicky had secrets and there was nothing Peter liked more than having a good puzzle to solve. But he wasn't going to solve it in a leather bar's dirty john.

“You’re way too tempting, Nicky. I think I want to take you home and get you naked and spend the next few hours doing all sorts of dirty things to you.”

He was shocked by his own suggestion. Peter _never_ took his hookups home with him.

And it seemed that he'd shocked Nicky, too. But that didn't mean that the night was over for either of them. "How about a hotel?"

Peter all but dragged Nicky out of Cockrun's. They were in Chelsea and there was no shortage of hotels in the area, ranging from "somewhat run-down" to "basic chain" to "quirky upscale".

He figured that a man like Nicky would cut out if he brought him to a "somewhat run-down" and Peter hated "basic chain", so The Standard, one of the newer and quirkier hotels that had sprung up on the West Side, was his choice.

The choice seemed to surprise his companion, or maybe it was the fact that he asked for an upper-level suite with a river view, generally the priciest of all the rooms in the hotel. He knew he was showing off, but why shouldn't he? 

As much as he wanted to get close and stay close, Peter didn't crowd Nicky in the elevator, nor did he get handsy with him in the hall or as they approached the suite. He would have liked to have pushed Nicky against the door and given him a taste of what was in store, but he kept a civilized veneer on.

Except that Nicky kept giving him a look, side-eyed, through those endless lashes, definitely flirtatious.

Definitely tempting.

So, once inside, Peter didn't give Nicky a chance. He locked the door and, not even bothering with the lights, he pushed his companion into the center of the room. The glow from the floor to ceiling windows provided enough illumination for him to see the desire in Nicky's eyes, in Nicky's body.

"How do you want this?"

"You're _asking_?"

Peter chuckled. "Why, does that break the leather man's code or something?"

"Or something."

"So, I should just take what I want?"

Nicky licked his lips. "Maybe." He reached for the buttons on his vest, but Peter pushed his hands away.

"In that case, you do only what I tell you to do. You disobey, you'll get punished."

Nicky gasped, his eyes going wide.

Peter covered the man's hands with his own, stroking the delicate joints, finding his pulse points and rubbing his thumbs over that fluttering spot. "You like that? You want me to punish you?"

"Only if – if I disobey."

"Good, but first things first. I'll have your safe word."

Nicky didn't pause, didn't argue. He just said, "Bolero".

Peter grinned, "Ah, sweet Nicky, why do I think you'll enjoy disobeying me?"

Nicky laughed. "And why do I think you'll enjoy punishing me when I do?"

Peter smiled. "Because we are who we are?"

"Exactly." Nicky lifted his chin, challenging him.

Peter wasn't a man who backed down from challenges. He also wasn't a man who particularly enjoyed kissing, but there was something about Nicky that made the idea of kissing him irresistible. He cupped the back of Nicky's head, threaded his fingers through the mass of dark hair and pulled him close.

"I don't kiss."

"I don't care."

Despite his protest, Nicky didn't resist as Peter kissed him. He didn't resist as Peter used the advantage of height and strength to part his lips. Nicky certainly didn't resist as Peter licked and nipped and teased. 

No, Nicky wasn't resisting at all when he opened up beneath Peter and kissed him back, his tongue joining in the play, flirting with his. 

Peter pulled Nicky closer, his hand tightening in Nicky's curls and he bucked against him.

_The boy liked that._

He pulled again and Nicky moaned against his mouth. Peter laughed. "Let's see what else your mouth is good for." He pushed him down, one hand on Nicky's shoulder, the other still tangled in his hair.

Nicky mouthed his crotch, licking the bulge behind the leathers.

Peter went to open his fly but Nicky pushed his hands away. "Let me."

He was going to, but the boy needed some discipline. He gave another tug and growled, "Ask first."

Nicky looked up at him, licked his lips again, and begged so prettily, "May I please see your cock? May I open your trousers?"

Peter liked the odd formality of Nicky's request. "Go ahead."

Nicky's fingers were clever as they worked the buttons loose, but he didn't take his cock out. No, the boy looked up at him again for permission and Peter nodded. Nicky buried his face in Peter's crotch, rubbing his cheek against him like he was a cat marking with his scent glands.

Peter let him nuzzle and took his own pleasure. He loosened his grip on Nicky's hair but didn't let go. He used both hands to hold his head close until Nicky's ministrations became too much.

"Take my cock out, suck it."

Nicky didn't obey right away and Peter pulled him away. "Do it, Nicky."

He got another wicked grin and the challenging "make me" look. Peter tightened his hold and took pleasure in Nicky's brief grimace and the sound of his breath catching. 

"Bad boys don't get my cock. If you want my cock, you do what I tell you." Peter had never been a fan of dirty talk, preferring to get right into the action, but there was something about Nicky that brought out his inner porn star.

"Do bad boys get spanked?"

"Yes, and so do good boys. Are you going to be a good boy for me, Nicky? Are you going to suck my dick?"

"Are you going to spank me?"

"With my dick or with my hand?"

"How about both?"

"Stop being such a brat. Suck my cock. Show me that your mouth is good for something more than sass."

Nicky chuckled before getting down to the task at hand. 

That mouth was as skillful as it was beautiful. Nicky was enthusiastic but he was also a tease, toying with him, bringing him close to the edge time and time again until Peter couldn't take it anymore.

He pulled Nicky to his feet and kissed him again, actually relishing the bitter taste of his own pre-come. He could feel Nicky's smirk under his lips and bit down, hard. "You really do want to get spanked, don't you?"

"Big man, are you all talk and no action?" Nicky looked at him from under those incredible eyelashes, and toyed with one of the buttons on Peter's vest.

As Peter pushed Nicky towards the bed, he could feel his palms start to tingle. "You are quite the handful, aren't you?"

"So I've been told."

Peter tucked his cock back in his pants, but left them unbuttoned. He pulled the covers off, sat down, reached over, and turned on one of the bedside lamps. For this, he really wanted to see Nicky, see his face, see his eyes, his ass.

"Take off your vest."

In the soft glow, the man before him was like some wicked young god, or maybe a god's wicked servant in that beautiful, well-worn collar and cuffs. Peter pulled Nicky close and explored his torso, playing with his piercings until Nicky moaned. "I think I want you across my lap. How does that sound?"

"Are you asking or ordering?"

"Get on my lap, you little shit."

Nicky laughed and draped himself across Peter's thighs like a ballet dancer.

In this position, Peter had the chance to truly appreciate Nicky's gifts – particularly that bubble butt. He knew men who'd worked out for years, who'd spent half their day at a gym, who'd even had their asses sculpted by the best that the medical profession could provide, and he'd never seen an ass this fine.

Peter trailed his fingers over the tight leather. The material was soft – probably kidskin, not calf or cow hide. The pants were tailored, which told him that Nicky had some money. The boots were gorgeous, too, and Peter enjoyed a quick fantasy of Nicky wearing nothing but those boots and the collar and cuffs.

"Like what you see?" Nicky wriggled against him, clearly feeling Peter's arousal.

"Of course I do. Your ass is gorgeous, which I am sure you know." Peter punctuated his compliment with a light slap. 

Nicky shivered.

"You like that."

"Yeah, oh yeah."

Peter took his time peppering that perfect ass with light taps. He didn't want to wear out his arm before he got the boy naked. By the time he was finished – for the moment – Nicky was mewling and rubbing himself against him like a cat.

"Get up."

Nicky didn't move.

Peter gave a gentle yank on Nicky's hair. "I said, get up."

"Why?" 

"Because I want to spank your bare ass."

"Mmmm, yeah." Nicky managed to get to his feet, albeit a little unsteadily. His leather pants had a lace-up front that was currently at maximum strain. He loosened his belt, pulled the drawstring and pushed them down over his hips. 

Peter licked his lips. Nicky was bare – not shaved bare, but waxed bare. He didn't remember that from before.

Nicky was about to get back on his lap, but Peter shook his head. "All the way off."

"I'll have to take the boots off."

"That's just fine."

Nicky let out a huffy sigh and bent over.

Peter commanded, "Turn around." 

This time, Nicky didn't pause or negotiate or snark back. He followed Peter's instructions, bent over again, this time displaying his perfect ass, nicely pinked from the warm-up Peter had given.

Nicky took his time unlacing those boots, shimmying out of the leathers. His legs were endless, beautiful, strong, and Peter's mouth watered. The light was just bright enough that he could see Nicky's balls. Oh, he was so going to enjoy his time with this man.

Naked, except for the collar, cuffs and body adornment, Peter ran his fingers over Nicky. The man was utterly flawless. Not a scar or a mark or a mole. No tattoos, which was a rarity in the leather sub-culture. Everything about this man spoke of wealth and polish. Nicky might hate the term, but he was definitely a tourist and not a hardcore devotee of the lifestyle.

Which didn't do anything to diminish his attractiveness to Peter, if just because he was the same – a tourist, too. Despite his long-term participation in the leather scene, he'd never considered it his emotional home, but simply a way to blow off steam from a hard and stressful career. Yes, he was dominant but he wasn't a Dom, and he'd never seriously considered having a long term D/s relationship. 

As far as Peter was concerned, all he needed was the occasional fuck. Anything resembling a long-term relationship, or even anything more serious than friends with benefits, was something to be avoided at all costs.

Except that when he stared at Nicky, so beautiful and perfect, he couldn't help but imagine coming home to this every damn night.

"Anything wrong?"

Peter smiled and banished those unlikely and unwelcome thoughts. He stood up, patted the mattress, and gave Nicky instructions. "Kneel."

That seemed to unnerve Nicky. "Huh?"

"Kneel on the edge of the bed. I want to play hard. You up for that?" Peter unbuckled his belt.

Nicky grimaced. "I'd prefer your hand."

"Ah, okay." In truth, Peter wasn't at all disappointed. "Not a problem." He gestured to the bed. "But I gave you an order. Kneel."

Again, he got that strangely discomposed look, but this time Nicky obeyed. He knelt on the edge of the bed, thighs parted, ass raised, head and shoulders down. A perfect picture of submission.

"You ready?"

"I've been ready all night."

"Bossy, aren't you?" Peter chuckled.

Nicky shot back, "Domineering, aren't you?"

"I'm tempted to gag you, but I think we'll leave that for another night." Peter dragged his fingers over Nicky's still pink ass. And with that, Peter began. He wasn't aiming to hurt Nicky and this wasn't an act of discipline. It was pure impact play. 

Peter worked that ass hard. These weren't love taps, and it was likely that Nicky would be sporting a nice set of bruises tomorrow. But the boy was loving it, his ass rising higher into the air, his barely muffled cries were of pleasure ( _yes, yes, yes – don't stop_ ) and when Peter paused to check him, Nicky's cock was rock hard and his balls were tightly drawn up against his body.

"How about five more?"

"And then you'll fuck me?" Nicky's voice was slurred, he was deep into subspace.

"Of course."

"You'll fuck me hard?"

"If that's what you want." Peter was a little amused. A hard fucking was always part of the equation.

"Oh, yes. Please, please. Fuck me hard."

"Your wish is my command." Peter pulled off his tee-shirt and he could smell his own lust. He toed off his boots and before getting out of the tight leather trousers, he extracted a couple of packets of lube and a strip of condoms.

He didn't think he'd need all of them, but the Standard – like many of the hotels in Chelsea – had the necessary accommodations in the mini bar if he ran out.

Even in the dim light, Peter could see the bright red on Nicky's ass and thighs, even the outline of his hand, which was still tingling. He massaged the bruises and was rewarded with a hiss of pained pleasure. 

"Fuck me, damn it."

Peter slapped Nicky. "You are such a bossy bottom, you know that?"

"Are you all talk, no action?" 

"I'm tempted to put on my clothes and walk away, Nicky." Peter stepped away from the bed.

"No, nooo – don't. I'm sorry." Nicky turned to face him. "I didn't mean it – please, oh please don't go. I'll be good."

Peter, who really wasn't going to go anywhere, smiled to himself. This was the drop talking, because Nicky didn't seem the type to beg anyone for anything, at least not like this.

"Okay, but we go at my pace."

"Thank you, oh, thank you." Nicky pushed his bruised ass higher in the air.

Peter opened one of the lube packets and squeezed it over his fingers and Nicky's pucker, working first one and then a second finger in, gently stretching the tight muscle, then curving them to reach for Nicky's joy button. Not for the first time, it occurred to Peter that this was the same as the infamous FBI two-finger summons that the higher-ups used on their subordinates.

He must have been doing it right, because Nicky let out another whine of pleasure. He was ready. More than ready.

Peter slid his fingers out, put on a condom and pressed the head of his cock against Nicky's hole. It resisted and Peter lightly slapped Nicky's flank. "Relax."

Nicky obeyed, taking a deep breath, and Peter was finally able to get past the tight ring of muscle. He worked slowly and inexorably until he was balls deep, letting out a sigh of satisfaction.

He could fuck Nicky hard, he could pound him until they were both crying out, much like he had in that spectacular encounter at Cockrun's, but suddenly, Peter wanted something more. He pushed Nicky so he was flat on the bed and he covered him, torso to back, and then finally started to move.

It was a slow, deep fuck, the slide and glide of flesh against flesh. Peter found Nicky's adornments and played with them, tugging and pinching. Nicky rolled his hips back, whispering, "Harder, harder."

To give Nicky what he wanted, Peter planted his hands on either side of Nicky's head, bracing his arms and letting his hips do the work. He could feel the orgasm build, but he wanted Nicky to come first, he wanted to feel Nicky's ass clamp down as he fucked him through his orgasm.

He reared back, pulling Nicky high against his groin and reached underneath to jack his cock in time with his thrusts. It felt almost too good.

"Please, please let come, I'm so close – I need to come."

"Then do it, come for me, sweet Nicky, come now." The boy's begging was so sweet.

Nicky did, spurting come over Peter's hand and as his ass clamped down, Peter's thrusts sped up until he couldn't hold back anymore. He came with a shout, collapsing against Nicky, but managing to roll both of them on their sides.

Peter wiped his hand against Nicky's belly, smearing come over the sweaty skin. He'd clean them both up in a few minutes but for now, he just wanted to enjoy the post-orgasm haze.

Nicky moved against him and whimpered as his undoubtedly sore ass made contact with Peter's body.

"You okay?"

"Oh, yeah. Better than okay." Nicky shifted and Peter's cock slid out – which was his cue to get up and take care of his partner.

"Hold on, I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

Nicky laughed, a breathy and delighted sound. "Where would I go?"

Peter chuckled and pressed a kiss against Nicky's shoulder. "Good." He got up, took off the condom, tied it off and tossed it in the wastebasket next to the bed. Once in the bathroom, he contemplated taking a quick shower, but it didn't seem fair – at least not until he had taken care of Nicky. Impact play, even without the element of discipline, had its consequences. 

So instead of the shower, Peter washed himself and put on one of the terry cloth robes provided by the hotel. He ran another washcloth under the warm water and went out to clean Nicky up, all the while telling him how wonderful and beautiful he was.

That accomplished, he managed to arrange Nicky so he was lying on the bed properly, head on a pillow, feet covered by the sheet. Peter looked at the man's bruised ass and winced. While Nicky hadn't safe-worded, and clearly expressed his enjoyment of the spanking, Peter was a little dismayed at how badly he had bruised him.

He went back to the bathroom, soaked a hand towel in cold water, wringing it out, and took it out to Nicky, who hissed when Peter draped it over his ass.

"Are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah. Better than okay." The man's voice was slurred, and it was clear he was well into subspace.

There was one more thing he needed to do for his partner before he could let him rest.

"Get up."

"Huh? What?"

"Get up – need you on your feet for a few. You'll thank me in the morning."

Nicky gave him the stink-eye, but he had the sense not to argue. Peter held him as they walked around the room, making a dozen circuits before he let Nicky get back into bed.

Peter contemplated joining Nicky in bed, it was big enough that he could rest without crowding him.

"Whassa matter?" Nicky looked up at him from under those outrageous eyelashes.

"Just thinking."

"How about thinking while you're holding me?"

Peter shook his head. Even deep in subspace, Nicky was a bossy bastard.

"You sure?- Your ass is bruised. It's not going to be comfortable."

"Nah – want you to hold me."

"And who am I to turn down such an enticing offer." Peter picked up the damp towel he'd used to cool down Nicky's ass. "Let me get rid of this and I'll be right back."

"Okay. Don't take too long."

Peter took the towel back to the bathroom, and before going back to the bed, he retrieved two bottles of water from the mini-bar. There was also a package with Advil and he took that, too.

"Can you sit up for a sec?"

Nicky grumbled, but did as Peter asked, wincing as his butt met the sheets. 

"Here, you should take these." He gave Nicky the Advil package – unopened – and the bottle of water.

Nicky gave him a considering look. "You're awfully good with the aftercare. Do this a lot?"

"Not really."

"Hmm." Nicky fumbled with the Advil and pushed it back to him. "Can you open – my fingers aren't working so well."

Peter opened the package and the water. He watched as Nicky finished the entire bottle, and disposed of them.

"Sleep now?"

"Just one more thing." Peter reached for the collar around Nicky's neck. "Let me take this off?"

Nicky nodded and managed to get the leather cuffs off without too much fumbling. "Thanks."

Peter kissed the warm, damp skin he just revealed and took pleasure in Nicky's sigh of satisfaction. He turned off the light and got into bed behind Nicky. He could feel the heat from his ass. It was like a furnace. He tried to keep some distance between them, but Nicky pulled his arm over his waist and snuggled back. He hissed and sighed again as he fell into sleep. 

Peter sighed, too. This felt nice and as tired as he was, he couldn't turn off his brain, which kept telling him not to let his man go. 

Ever.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal tried to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut. He scrunched up his face in an attempt to break up the crust and that seemed to work.

_Damn, he fell asleep with his contacts in, again._

He blinked a few times and his vision cleared. What greeted him weren't the stacks of half-unpacked boxes that decorated the confines of his new apartment on Riverside Drive, but a clean and modernist hotel room. The curtains were partially open, revealing a sunlight view of the Hudson River and the Hoboken skyline on the New Jersey side.

And more startling than the unexpected location was the man in the bed next to him, his arm draped possessively over his waist.

Memories of last night came flooding back. Getting dressed for an evening at Cockrun's, meeting up with Mr. Wonderful – _Peter_ – and agreeing to go with him to a hotel.

The spanking.

The fucking.

The aftercare. 

He remembered everything.

Neal must have made a sound, because Peter shifted behind him, and then his lips were nuzzling at the back of his neck. "You awake?"

He thought about playing possum, but he didn't. "Yeah, I am."

"How are you feeling?"

Neal took stock of himself. His ass was definitely sore, but not unbearably so. So were his nipples and the rim of his navel. Tender, but not in pain – just parts of his body that he was now exquisitely aware of. His head was clear; there was no post-drop fuzziness, which was a testament to the quality of Peter's aftercare. All in all, he felt pretty damn good.

"It's still early. You want to go back to sleep for a bit? We don't have to check out until noon."

Neal rolled over and looked at Peter. This was his first time really seeing the man. The early morning light was kind to him – not that it had a reason to be cruel. Peter's face wasn't classically handsome. His nose was strong and a little broad, age sat lightly on his brow and chin, but there was no sign of any chemical enhancements. Peter's lips were beautiful – strong and a touch stern, but Neal had the feeling this was a man who smiled more often than he frowned.

His eyes were beautiful, too. Neal smiled to himself. It was a good thing that Peter had kept his aviators on in the club, otherwise no one would take his dominant persona seriously. His eyes were just too kind.

Peter smiled at him and Neal felt something shift inside. He knew that everything he worked for, everything he wanted, all those dreams of success and recognition could come crashing down if he didn't get out of here.

His expression must have given something away, because Peter's smile faded. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." Neal didn't want to be rude, he didn't want to tear himself out of Peter's arms and run away. Peter deserved better than that.

"You sure? You look like someone just kicked your puppy."

"I'm good."

Peter's expression remained doubtful.

"Seriously, I'm fine."

"All right. We played hard last night – I was worried that I went too far."

"No, no. It was perfect." Neal couldn't keep the sincerity out of his voice. It had been perfect. Beautifully, utterly perfect. That's why he was so screwed.

That brought Peter's smile back. "Thank you. It was pretty damn perfect for me, too." With that, Peter kissed him and despite the hint of morning breath, Neal responded with enthusiasm. 

Neal knew he needed to end that kiss, to get dressed and get out of this hotel room. He had a life, he had plans, and if he didn't escape, everything he'd spent his life working for might just come crashing down.

If he didn't get out of here, Peter was going to become the ultimate distraction. An addiction he couldn't live without.

But Neal didn't leave, he didn't squirm out from under Peter's arms and make his excuses. He let Peter kiss him (and it seemed that he'd never been kissed before until he'd been kissed by this man). He let Peter roll him onto his back and explore him. He let Peter and Peter's fingers and mouth learn his body, soothe away the stings and aches from last night. He let Peter whisper all sorts of beautiful things to him, praise and appreciation.

He could have escaped when Peter reached for a condom and the lube, but he didn't. 

Neal let all the opportunities to escape slide by. It wasn't that he wasn't strong enough, it wasn't that he was weak and in thrall to this man. Neal didn't leave because he didn't want to. This was it – he would take what Peter was giving him and make an end of it.

"Nicky…" Peter whispered that name against his neck. Neal hated those syllables and wished he could hear Peter say his real name. There had been that terrifying, wonderful moment last night, when Peter commanded him to kneel and he'd thought – just for a moment – that somehow, Peter had learned his name. That he'd given himself away.

And now, he so wished he had. And yet, he was also glad he hadn't. He couldn't afford any ties to this night. When he walked out of this hotel room, he was going to have to close the coffin on the parts of him that liked to play these dangerous games.

When Peter entered him, it felt like _he_ was coming home. Or that he _was_ a home and this was just where Peter belonged.

His body rose and fell in perfect synchronicity, this morning coupling a gentle counterpoint to last night's intensity. When he came, it was like the tide – an inevitability.

Neal wanted to cry.

Peter pulled out of him, took care of the condom and relaxed next to him. "Good morning."

Neal didn't want to, but he rolled onto his side and whispered, "Good morning" back.

Peter's expression changed, from lazy satisfaction to an almost too-intense curiosity. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

_Oh, there were a million things wrong._

"Why do you ask?"

"Because you don't seem happy?"

Neal lifted himself up onto one elbow and looked down at Peter. "Since when is happiness part of the equation?"

"Ah." Peter's expression changed. The warmth left his eyes, replaced by cynicism. "One doesn't expect or even require happiness from random hook-ups."

Neal regretted his words, but necessity prevented him from taking them back. Instead, he doubled-down. "No, not at all."

Peter nodded. "Then I guess there's nothing more to say."

"I had a good time."

"I did, too." Peter's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

There was too much tension in the room and Neal wanted to escape more than ever, but he couldn't be that cruel. "How about you shower and then we'll have breakfast?"

Peter smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You go first. I'll order room service."

"Okay. Sounds perfect."

Neal got out of bed and could feel Peter's eyes on his ass, tracking him all the way to the bathroom.

He knew that when he'd go back into the room, Peter – and all traces of him – would be gone.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Text from Reese Hughes, 8:43 AM, Monday:  
 _New probie coming in today._

Reply from Peter Burke, 8:47 AM, Monday:  
_Thrilling. Can't wait._

Reply from Reese Hughes, 8:51 AM, Monday:  
_Stop being such a sarcastic SOB. I picked a good one for you._

Reply from Peter Burke, 9:05 AM, Monday:  
_I want Diana back._

Reply from Reese Hughes, 9:07 AM, Monday:  
_Sorry, you can't have her. Just trust me, you'll like the new one._

Peter grimaced. Of all the things he didn't want to have to deal with this morning, breaking in a new probationary agent was probably at the top of the list. Right after the two hours of trial prep he needed to attend with the AUSA before heading into the office.

The Dutchman's trial was coming up and he was the government's star witness. His testimony would be key to securing that conviction. He knew he needed to be as prepared as possible, but his mind just kept going back to the weekend. To the anonymous hookup that somehow became something a hell of a lot more.

But just to him. 

"Nicky" clearly didn't think it was, though. After that too-beautiful morning fuck, Peter could read his distaste. He didn't think it was for him, personally. In fact, he was pretty certain of that. It was for what he knew Peter wanted to ask – to spend the weekend, to see him again. To maybe see if there was something between them. Something more than leather and kink and fake names and real lust.

"Agent Burke? Is everything all right?"

Peter forced his attention back to the U.S. Attorney. "Fine. What was your question?"

The prep continued until almost eleven and probably would have gone longer, if Peter hadn't put his foot down. Not that he was so eager to get to the office. There was a probie waiting.

It wasn't that he didn't like dealing with new agents. In fact, he usually looked forward to working all that bright and shining eagerness. He wasn't a supervisory agent who saw the newbies as glorified clerks or interns. These men and women were the future of the FBI, and what they learned in these first two years would define their careers. 

It was just today he didn't want to deal with that. Not when he was feeling like he'd lost something he never knew he wanted.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was gone when Neal got out of the shower. He left a note on the desk. All it said was _"Thank you."_

That was it. Nothing more. This was what he wanted, so why did he feel like shit?

Neal didn't hang around; he ordered an Uber and got dressed. The car was waiting for him by the time he got to the lobby, and since it was well before noon on a Saturday, it took less than twenty minutes to make it uptown to his new apartment on Riverside Drive.

His landlady, June, wasn't home – not that Neal really wanted to avoid her. She was a charming and open minded lady and Neal was unbelievably grateful to her. It turned out that she was good friends with his former landlord in Boston, Mozzie, and he was the one who let him know about her fourth-floor loft that was available for below-market rent. 

Not that June had been at all anxious to rent to a Fed. Even a Baby Fed as Moz liked to call him. But she did like his taste in clothes and music and, of all things, hats. And Neal liked the idea of not living in a tiny shoebox of an apartment that consumed a huge chunk of his salary, or worse, sharing space with other people he didn't know. And the commute between the Riverside neighborhood and Lower Manhattan wasn't bad, a single twenty-minute subway ride.

Once inside his apartment, Neal changed out of his leathers. He turned the trousers inside-out to let them air out and did the same with his vest. The collar and cuffs, which he hadn't put back on when he'd left the hotel room, were wiped down and put in a box. Neal grimaced as he took out his body jewelry. Those, too, were cleaned and put away. Once the leathers finished airing out, they'd get put away for good.

This part of his life was over. It had to be. He couldn't risk running into Peter again and the thought of playing hard with anyone else made his stomach crawl. Until now, he'd never understood the expression, "ruined for anyone else" but now he did, viscerally.

He didn't regret last night and he couldn't regret this morning. 

Neal spent the rest of the weekend unpacking. The physical activity felt good, and getting his new life arranged to his liking was a welcome distraction. 

Six hours later, he was mostly done. Taking the last of the boxes down to the trash, he encountered June on the stairs. 

"Good afternoon, Neal. You look like you've been hard at work."

"I have – but other than some books, I'm all done." He shifted the load of folded-up cardboard under his arms. "I don't know how I've accumulated so much stuff." He chuckled and shook his head.

"Wait until you're my age and have several generations of 'stuff' to deal with." June let out a tiny sigh. "Anyway, I'm glad I found you. My daughter was supposed to come for dinner and bring my grandchildren, by the littlest has a bad cold so they all cancelled at the last minute. Would you like to join me? Cook has prepared rack of lamb and roasted potatoes, and of course there will be plenty of wine, since it's just us adults."

"Who are you calling an adult?" Neal laughed. "And I would be delighted. Just let me take these out, have a quick shower and I'd be happy to have dinner with you." 

Dinner was lovely. June was a charming and erudite conversationalist, and Neal could easily understand how she'd forged a connection with his quirky ex-landlord.

"Can I ask, how do you know Mozzie?"

June got a sly look in her eyes. "Let's just say that there are some things a Fed, even a Baby Fed like you, shouldn't know."

"I'm not unaware of Mozzie's less than legal activities, you know," Neal countered, hoping to entice the story out of her. 

But it didn't work. "The less you know, the better. Besides, the statute of limitations on that particular venture hasn't run out yet."

Neal was pretty sure that June was kidding him. Except that "pretty sure" wasn't a certainty and if his landlady was involved in a felony, he was better off not knowing.

"So, are you excited?"

"About starting at the FBI?"

"Yes."

"Of course I am. It's …" Neal sighed. "A dream come true. I've worked for this for my entire life."

"But?" June seemed skeptical.

"No buts." Neal shook his head, but he couldn't escape the feeling that he was lying to himself now.

"Are you sure?"

"I am."

"You are or do you have to be?" June was nothing if not persistent.

"You know, you could give the instructors at Quantico lessons in interrogation."

"And for someone so young, you're a master of deflection."

"I went to Harvard Law and got an A+ in Deflection Studies."

"Very funny." June sipped her wine and looked at him over the rim of her glass. "You can always talk to me. I realize we barely know each other, but I have a feeling that we're a lot alike."

Neal nodded. "I think you're right."

"So, are you going to tell me?"

Neal shrugged, sipped his wine and decided that maybe he did need another perspective. "I think I might have met someone."

"And the timing is wrong."

Neal wasn't at all surprised that June was able to zero in on the problem. "Exactly. And it wasn't really a conventional encounter."

"You met in a leather bar." That wasn't a question.

"How did you know?"

"I saw you leave last night. You weren't dressed for drinks at the Carlyle."

"Yeah." Neal made a face. "I'd met this guy before – before I started at Quantico, but we hadn't exchanged names."

"Just bodily fluids?"

Neal didn't bother to pretend to be shocked. "I had hoped to see him again, but didn't expect to."

"And yet, you did."

"We spent the night at The Standard."

"Nice."

"It was. A little too nice."

"Is there any reason why you can't have your career and this guy?"

He laughed. "I'm a newly minted FBI agent, how would it look if I was dating a leather daddy?"

"You can't tell me that's his career."

Neal shrugged. "It's all I know about him." _Other than he's kind and gorgeous and smart and caring..._

June sighed. "What about a name – tell me you got his name."

"Just his first – Peter. And it might not even be his real name. I didn't use my real name"

"You could go back to the bar. If you met him there twice, you'll probably find him there again."

"I know. It's just…"

"Not tonight, not tomorrow. Not even next week. Get settled into your new job, find your feet and then go looking. If you find him, think about getting to know him before getting laid again."

They finished up dinner with a lighter conversation. Neal retreated to his apartment and rolled around the idea of meeting Peter in less dramatic circumstances and liked it. He didn't know a lot about Peter, but what he did know was good. 

And he had to laugh at himself. Peter was not a professional leather daddy. No tattoos, no piercings, no body adornments to speak of. He was well-built but not ripped – a man who took care of himself but didn't obsess over his body. All of the clues had been in front of him, but he'd missed them completely.

He also thought about Peter's comment to him about being a "tourist" – which was something of an insult in the community, and he realized that the old adage of "it takes one to know one" might definitely apply.

June's advice was sound and the more he thought on it, the more he liked the idea. Wait a while, get settled in at the Bureau, put his feet on the right path. Then go hunting. 

Monday morning, and Neal was up before the birds. Last night, he'd taken out the suit he wanted to wear for his very first day. He'd been tempted to wear the black Armani, but figured it was a little too much for the FBI, at least on the first day. He settled for a dark blue Paul Stuart, a crisp white shirt and a silver-gray tie. Conservative and elegant in an understated way. But he wasn't compromising on the hat – a vintage trilby that had been his trademark at Braxton & Hicks. Neal knew he could never just blend with the herd, so if he was going to stand out, he was going to do it with style and panache.

But on second thought, Neal left the hat behind. He had a long career ahead of him, plenty of time to stand out and make his mark. With style and panache. And skill and smarts, too.

He had his reporting instructions. First stop was the Office of Personnel Management, where he'd get his office identification and his photo taken. Then an escort to the White Collar division offices on the twenty-first floor. While he hadn't been thrilled about the assignment to New York, he knew that there really was no more prestigious placement than the largest and most influential FBI field office in the country. If he wanted to make a name for himself, this was where it was going to happen. 

And Reese Hughes, the ASAC, was a legend. Not one but three of his cases had been on the syllabus at Quantico. Rumor had it that he'd retired at the mandatory age but someone had gotten a line item into a spending bill to bring him back, despite FBI personnel regulations.

Neal liked the idea of working for (and hopefully with) a legend. And Reese Hughes wasn't the only legend in the White Collar division. Peter Burke was also there, and Neal smiled at the interesting confluence of names.

Six months ago, Burke had apprehended the "Dutchman," a legendary forger who nearly cost the U.S. Government millions in a clever bond forgery scheme. Neal had been following the case and it was coming to trial soon. Maybe he'd get the chance to observe Agent Burke's testimony.

Stepping into Federal Plaza, Neal felt more grounded, more settled than he had since his Academy graduation. This was what he wanted to do, what he wanted to be. This was his chance to make his mark on the world.

There was a civilian waiting to take him and a half-dozen other probies up to the OPM office. He recognized a few of them from his Academy class and they caught up on some gossip – who was assigned where, who was bailing before they even started. 

Lauren, a former Marine and all-around bad-ass, asked him, "Do you know what division you're heading to?"

"White Collar, you?"

"Organized Crime. I figured they'd put me in Counter-Terrorism, but to be honest, I'm glad they didn't."

Everyone was herded off to different offices for intake and Neal didn't see Lauren again. He knew where she was working and he'd catch up with her when he could, if she didn't find him first. 

He smiled for his photo and took the laminate they produced for him. Although he had his official FBI identification, this was for the building and would get him into the office and other places he was cleared for access. Then more waiting, more questions, and finally, an agent from the White Collar division came to get him.

"Clinton Jones, and welcome aboard." 

Neal took the hand offered. "Neal Caffrey, and glad to be here."

"I'm sure you are." 

Neal wondered what that meant. 

"Nothing personal, just everyone wants the New York field office."

"I was actually hoping for a D.C. assignment, to be honest."

"So, you're _not_ happy to be here? That was just a lie?"

"Is this a test, because I'm getting some weird vibes here."

"Yeah, it's a test. Wanted to see if you're on your toes. White Collar's not as flashy as Organized Crime or Counter-Terrorism, but we do real work here. It's not all art fraud and bond forgeries."

"Although apprehending the Dutchman was a pretty big deal."

Jones gave him an appreciative look. "Yes, it was. In certain circles."

They got off the elevator and Clinton introduced him to the guard, Allen.

"Jones, is that Caffrey?" A man came out of an office and barked from the balcony. Neal recognized him from the profile pictures in his syllabus. This was Agent Hughes. 

He made the infamous two-figured summoning gesture and Jones gave him a little push. "Welcome to White Collar."

Neal wasn't going to let anything take the shine off this day and bounded up the steps, aware that he was the cynosure of all eyes, but he didn't care. "Neal Caffrey, reporting for duty."

Agent Hughes gave him the once-over and smiled slightly. "When you introduce yourself, it's Special Agent, remember that."

Neal nodded and filed the information away. 

Hughes took him into the conference room and Neal was prepared for a canned speech. What he got surprised him. "I didn't just pick your resume out of a pile with my eyes closed. You are, on paper, an excellent fit for this division."

Neal blinked, surprised at the level of candor. "Thank you, sir."

"So don't screw up."

"No, sir, I won't."

"Actually, you probably will. But try not to do it too often or too badly."

Neal was feeling a little cowed. If what Agent Jones had tried to pull on him a little while ago was a test, this felt like the damn bar exam. Then Neal remembered he had a nearly perfect score on that exam.

"Will I be working for you, sir?"

"No, I've assigned you to Agent Burke – "

"Peter Burke?"

"Yes, you've heard of him?"

"I've been following the Dutchman case, sir. It broke a few weeks before my class started at the Academy and it was kind of big news. The way Agent Burke used exigent circumstances to seize the forged bond, because they were in plain view – even though the bonds had nothing to do with the suspect he was trying to apprehend."

"Yeah, well – Burke's going to have a high set of hurdles to overcome with that."

"The defense is going to say that Agent Burke was colluding with the CI, right?"

"Exactly. The case isn't a slam dunk in the slightest. But it's good to know that you're following it."

Neal grinned, he couldn't contain his excitement. "Working with Agent Burke – that's an opportunity of a lifetime. Thank you, sir."

Agent Hughes shook his head, clearly amused at his enthusiasm. "Have a seat. Burke's at the AUSA's office doing prep for his testimony. You'll have the chance to ask him all about it."

"He won't mind? I don't want to presume."

"Nah, and if he gives you grief, you can tell him I told you to ask about it." Hughes looked at his watch. "He should be back soon."

At that, Agent Hughes went back into his office and Neal took the time to look around the conference room. There was the obligatory faux-bronze bust of J. Edgar, a photograph of the president and the FBI director. The technology was impressive, but nothing that Neal hadn't used in his law firm days.

The view outside the window was nothing to write home about – just another Lower Manhattan office building.

He was about to sit down when he heard the door open. It was Agent Hughes.

And Special Agent Peter Burke, his new boss.

Neal swallowed and felt the rush of a flop sweat starting at the base of his spine.

He was so fucked.

Special Agent Peter Burke was _his_ Peter. His beautiful, kind, sweet, dominant, sexy Peter.

_Oh yes, he was so completely and utterly fucked._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter looked at the man standing in front of him. Tall and beautiful in a perfectly tailored suit, a bright and shiny badge on his belt.

Nicky.

No, not Nicky. Neal Caffrey, his probationary agent for the next two years. He was so fucked.

But as fucked as he was, Peter couldn't keep the grin off his face.

He held out his hand. "Welcome to White Collar, Agent Caffrey."

Caffrey took his hand, "I'm pleased to be here." 

Peter's grin widened as he felt the nervous sweat on the other man's palm. "Good, because I own you for the next two years."

__

FIN


End file.
